The John, a Sherlock Fanfic
by Amalya Cumberlock
Summary: Inspired by fanart made by Shocking Blankets. John is a mini John, solled in a store that Sherlock passes by. a cute, fluffy story. Please review!
1. Chapter 1

Sherlock walked into the dusty store. It seemed like ages since anyone walked into it, which wasn't odd since it was at the edge of town. The floor was covered in dirt and the lights flickered every few minutes, but since he was on a case in this part of town anyway, he thought he might as well pass his time there, maybe buy some eggs and milk.  
The overweight cashier with the oil stain on his shirt nodded his head in Sherlock's direction. As Sherlock observed, he was obviously living with a stripper and stole money from the cash register. He walked down the aisles, moving slowly and looking at the things on the shelves. When he got to the milk, he flipped over the cartons and saw the expiration date on all of them was between 10-15 days ago. Grimacing, he moved on to the next isle. He walked by a few jars of peanut butter, jam and other things stacked up against the wall when he saw a little boy with a red balloon standing in front of some jars who's contents he could not see.  
"Mummy, please please buy me one!" He said to his mother, who peered around the aisle to see her child trying to reach a jar on a shelf to high for him.  
"Sweety, no, how many times do I have to tell you you'll get bored of it in a week?" She answered. She then came up to the pouting child and took his hand, guiding him away from Sherlock with an apologetic smile. Sherlock, know partially curious, went to see what the boy wanted so badly.  
On every shelf, in every glass jar, was a small person. Almost identical to each other, they all seemed to be doing different things: sleeping, exercising, watching Sherlock. He was surprised. He'd never seen such a curious thing, were they even real? Surely they weren't legal. The consulting detective looked at the label on one of the jars, picking it up: John- the best friend anyone can have: he walks, talks, and listens!  
Sherlock then looked at the minuscule creature looking him in the eyes: he had blond hair, dark blue-ish eyes and was wearing a light colored jumper covered in a red cardigan. The John was leaning against the glass, looking hopefully up at Sherlock. He was obviously already picked up many times, but always put back on the shelf. His eyes seemed to be asking "will you be the one to take me home? Free me from my jar?" And even the emotionless robot holding the glass jar felt like his heart melted a little as the tiny man stared at him. He wondered, _how many people had picked him up, raised his hopes and then set him down back on the shelf, waiting for the next person to choose him out of the tens of other, identical _creatures_? _He walked back to the cash register, John in hand, and laid the jar on the table. "How much?" He asked, not making eye contact with the cashier as he took out his wallet.  
"Ah, good choice. Johns are really cute and good friends, I'm sure your son will love him-"  
"I don't have a son, and I asked how much he costs, not what he is, I read the label." Sherlock said, cutting him off. The cashier, raising an eyebrow, told Sherlock the price. He left the money on the table and walked out, stuffing the glass jar into his inner jacket pocket.  
When he got to 221b Baker Street that evening, he took the jar out and put it on his kitchen table. The John, who seemed to have fallen asleep, sat up and rubbed his eyes. Sherlock sat down by the table and placed his chin on it, eye-level with his newest purchase. The John stood up and leaned against the glass, looking the detective in the eyes. After a few moments, Sherlock unscrewed the lid of the jar and picked up the John by the back of his collar, placing him on the table.  
The John sat down, stretching his legs in front if him and leaning in the jar behind him.  
"Hello." Sherlock said quietly.  
"Hello." The John said in a small, high voice.  
"I'm Sherlock."  
"I'm John."  
"I know."  
They sat in silence, just staring at each other. After a while, the John opened his mouth to say something, but closed it after a moments thought.  
"What?" Sherlock snapped. _Ugh, why did I buy this? Dull_, he thought to himself.  
"I was just wondering, why you bought me? Most people buy Johns because they have children, and you... Don't seem the type."  
Sherlock shrugged.  
"I don't know, it seemed interesting, the fact that we now sell miniature people. Isn't it against the law?" He asked. The John, scratched his chin.  
"I don't know. I don't think so, but I don't really remember where I came from, so I can't say. My first memory is from the store."  
Sherlock nodded.  
"Isn't it a bit claustrophobic, sitting for weeks, even months in a closed jar?"  
"Not really, I have some holes in the lid and I am used to the small space, so I'm fine." He said, looking around the room.  
They sat for a while, Sherlock watching the small man look around the room, absorbing his new surroundings, his new home. After a few minutes, Sherlock got bored. He looked at his watch. Nine fifteen.  
"Are you hungry?" He asked the John.  
"No, I usually get fed around eleven, so I get hungry around that time."  
Sherlock nodded. Suddenly, his phone rang.  
_Thank god_, he thought as he took it out, looking at the caller ID. Lestrade.  
"Yes?" He asked.  
"There's been another one."  
"Another what? You know I don't read the papers."  
"You know what I'm talking about. The suicides?"  
"Oh, yes. Where do I go?"  
"Follow my car."  
With that, Sherlock hung up.  
"Haha!" He said, jumping in the air.  
The John raised an eyebrow at him.  
"I'm a detective," he explained.  
"And there's been a fourth suicide, exactly like the others! Ha! It must be Christmas." He said, picking up the John in his hands.  
"Are you interested in coming with me?" He asked the small man.  
"I've lived my whole life in a small jar, watching people walk past me, look at me for a second then continue with their life, never having the ability to join them."  
"So the answer is..?" Sherlock asked, although he was fairly sure he knew it.  
"Oh god, yes."


	2. Chapter 2

I'm sorry this chapter is so short and, in my opinion, not very good, but I like the ending and honestly, I wouldn't change it. But please, feel free to tell me if you don't like it. enjoy!

* * *

After the cab drive to Cardiff, which the John spent on Sherlock's knee, since he begged not to be put in his inner coat pocket when it was unnecessary, Sherlock once again picked him up and put him in his pocket.

"Don't make a sound," he said, before paying the cabbie and getting out of the black car, into the dark, cold street which passed by a tall, slightly crooked old house surrounded by officers and police tape.

"Why?" the small man whispered.

Sherlock didn't answer, since he thought the reason to be stupid; he was ashamed of the fact that he bought a 'pet', which people mostly purchased for their child, or out of loneliness. Lestrade would most likely think the latter. He was probably right.

"You probably aren't legal," he lied. He went under the police tape, passing by Sally Donovan.

"Freak," she said, her way of saying hello.

"Hello, sally, how was your night out?" he asked her politely. She obviously spent the night at a mans flat, since she smelled like mens cologne and hadn't showered since yesterday.

"Fine," she answered, eyeing him slightly. She informed DI Lestrade "the freak" was coming in and let him go.

"Well, if it isn't the freak." Anderson said, blocking Sherlock's way into the crime scene.

Sherlock sniffed the air. "Let me pass, please." He said. The smell was familiar…

"I don't want the crime scene contaminated, please wear a suit." Anderson said, putting his arms across his chest.

"You're wearing mens cologne." Sherlock said, ignoring Andersons words completely.

"Obviously, idiot, its for men!"

"Well, as far as I'm informed, Sally isn't, and she's wearing it too." Sally stopped in her tracks, turning around to listen to Sherlock.

"And **_what_** exactly is your point, Holmes?" Anderson asked.

"Oh, nothing, I'm sure miss Donovan just passed by last night for a nice cup of tea, and, by the state of her knees, helped out by scrubbing the floor," the detective said, walking around the shocked pair.

"Briliant…" the small man in Sherlocks pocket muttered to himself, making him smile.

"It seems you aren't very liked here, are you?" he asked, receiving no answer.

A few hours later, the two were back at the flat, after investigating, eating at Angelo's, and Sherlock had a nice run after who he _thought_ was the murderer.

He pulled the John out of his inner coat pocket as they walked up the stairs.

"That was quite fun!" the john said. He couldn't stop smiling. Suddenly, Sherlock stopped. He heard voices from the apartment.

He shushed John, walking up the steps and stuffing him back into his pocket.

"What's going on here?" he asked, outraged, as he realized Lestrade and half a dozen of his people were rummaging through his things.

"It's a drugs bust!" Lestrade cried out, seeming pleased with the cover he had found for the fact that they were looking for the pink suitcase that had belonged to the murder victim, Jennifer Wilson.

"No it's not, you're here for the case!" Sherlock cried, throwing his hands in the air.

"Well, its not my fault you withheld evidence!" Lestrade said, walking up to face the detective.

"And for all we know, you might be on drugs."

"Please, I don't even smoke," Sherlock said, pulling back his sleeve to show a patch on his inner arm.

After a few minutes of fighting, Sherlock was whisked away by the cabbie who had killed all four victims, and was standing in a educational college, holding a small, round pill in his hand. He had deduced that out of the two pills on the table, that was the non-poisoned one.

"Not bored now, are you?" the cabbie said, slowly closing the distance between him and the pill in his hand.

"Sherlock, no!" John yelled as loudly as he could, climbing out of the mans pocket and clinging to his skin-tight shirt. He bit Sherlocks chest, the pain knocking the pill out of his hand.

"Ow! He yelled, looking angrily at the small man.

"What the hell is going on?" the cabbie asked, staring at Sherlock. Suddenly, he fell to the ground. Sherlock walked over. He seemed to be in pain, his tumor finally taking effect, Sherlock remarked. His face was disfigured with pain.

"Tell me who sent you!" Sherlock yelled at him.

"N-no…" the man said breathlessly.

"You're dying, but there's still time to hurt you," the detective said, kicking the old man in the shins, breaking his weak bones.

The man yelled in pain, giving in.

"Moriarty!" he yelled, fainting.

Sherlock stepped back, breathless. He took his phone out and called Lestrade, telling him to come over with medical help. The man may still be saved.

"Have you ever heard that name, Moriarty?" he asked John after closing his phone.

"No, but I think I'm not a very good source in that department." He answered. Sherlock pulled him out of his pocket.

"Ready to go home?" he asked the smaller man.

"Shouldn't you wait for the police?"

"They'll find the body with or without me, I'll come in to tell them what happened tomorrow. It's fine."

With that, the two left the dying murderer behind them, taking a cab home.


End file.
